Charlotte Sevres Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Bordeaux

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

403 - Permission Denied

By 10 AM, I’m already over it. I grab a coffee from that little café on Rue de Sèvres. You know the one? The barista’s always got that sassy attitude. I order my usual, and she’s like, “You again? You must really love this place.” I’m like, “Nah, just here for the caffeine fix.”

On the Validity of the Treaty of Sèvres and the Arbitral Award of Woodrow Wilson